


hot blooded

by bevcrushers (dothraloki)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: 'some kind of...', Alien Flora & Fauna, Bonding, Contrived Plot Devices, First Time, M/M, Sex Pollen, Stupidity, chaotic horny meets lawful horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 10:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19462522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraloki/pseuds/bevcrushers
Summary: “Wait,” Harry starts. “What does the flower have to do with this?”"And what do those fertility rituals have to do with us?” says Tom, brushing damp hair out of his face.-tom accidently gets hit with a dose of alien pollen and harry, somehow, gets dragged into it





	hot blooded

**Author's Note:**

> obviously i don't know anything about medicine or plant science so please excuse the obvious bullshit.
> 
> set during s2, probably around/after s2 e5 non-sequitur.

“Take a look at this place, Harry.” Tom spreads his arms wide, gesturing at the vast meadow around him.

It’s beautiful, there’s no doubt about it. It reminds Harry somewhat of Earth, with its plush greenery and rolling hills and clear blue lakes, in fact the only real hint of difference is the slight purple-pink tinge that streaks across the sky like watercolours on canvas. 

He can appreciate the beauty. He isn’t, however, as enamoured as _some_ people.

“We have to be at the checkpoint for seventeen hundred hours,” Harry reminds him. _Again._ “Unless you’re looking for another dressing-down from Tuvok?”

“You’re no fun,” Tom pouts, and Harry rolls his eyes. Sure, ordinarily, he would like to explore a little more, maybe even hike up the hills, but there’s a phase inducer refit with his name on it waiting for him back on Voyager and he knows better than to flake out on B’Elanna.

Not that Tom cares of course.

“Harry, come take a look at this.”

Harry rolls his eyes again, but obliges all the same, trudging diligently, albeit reluctantly after him. When Harry reaches the clearing Tom’s peering over a cluster of wildflowers nestled at the ground below a spindly tree, crooked and withered with age.

“Flowers?” Harry frowns at him. “Since when do you care about flowers?”

“I don’t know. Maybe around the time I realised that the closest I’m ever going to get to Yosemite Park is the holodeck,” Tom sends him a look. “I’m not a _philistine_ , Harry.”

Harry shrugs.

The flowers are startling pretty, he has to admit. Not unlike Earth’s rhododendrons, but the petals are a striking, electric blue powdered with gold spots, the stigma a vivid yellow. They look positively _alien._ He runs his tricorder over them - the readings return inconclusive.

“What do you think – should we pick some, take them down to the airponics bay?” he prods at the petals. “I’m sure Kes would appreciate something like this.”

“ _I’m sure,_ she would, but we have a job to do,” he shakes the vials of soil samples at him. “And besides, we don’t know anything about the flora.”

“So?”

“ _So?_ They could be poisonous. They could also have properties that we don’t know about yet. They could be toxic to humans. They could burn our skin away. They could -”

“Okay, alright, I get the picture,” Tom shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right.” Harry returns, smug. “Don’t know your away-mission protocols by now, Paris?”

It’s Tom’s turn to roll his eyes. “Please, _Commander_ , spare me the lecture.”

But just as he moves to stand up the flower sends out of a jet of yellow, sickly-sweet pollen. It disperses like dust, hitting Tom square in the face, and he staggers backward, coughing.

“Whoa.” Harry manages to catch him by the arm. “You okay?”

Tom tries to right himself, dazed. “Yeah I just – I don’t know - ”

“Hey,” Harry shakes him as he lolls forward again, losing his footing. He seems to be fighting consciousness. “Hey, stay with me here.”

“Yeah, ‘m here,” Tom slurs, and then promptly passes out.

Staggering under the sudden weight in his arms, Harry fumbles for his comm-badge. “Kim to Voyager. Lock onto to two signatures and beam us straight to sickbay.”

*

Tom stirs at the sound of murmuring, background chatter just below the level of hearing. It chirps like radio static, an incessant buzzing that he can’t quite make out around the ringing in his ears. His head _aches,_ dull and throbbing. It feels as if someone’s stuffed cotton wool inside his skull.

He tries to focus.

“ – afraid – traces – bloodstream.”

He concentrates on the second voice, a deep voice, one he recognises - Harry’s. “- don't understand how that happened,” he’s saying.

Tom moves to sit up, groaning all the way. A sudden wave of vertigo hits him, and he braces himself on his elbows.

“Mr. Paris,” the Doctor frowns down at him. “Good of you to join us.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve spent the night drinking my own bodyweight in Romulan ale?”

“Because you might as well have,” the tricorder flashes over him. “I knew you were reckless Lieutenant, but truly, every first-year cadet knows not to go handling random wild flora, especially on _unknown planets_.”

Tom glances over at Harry sat on the biobed beside him. The expression he wears is something like shock, or confusion, or no, something else, something he can’t parse -

“Give it to me then, Doc.”

The Doctor punches something into his PADD and levels his gaze. “I’m afraid, there’s nothing I can ‘give you’ yet. Not until Mr. Tuvok returns and I have chance to analyse the pollen you ingested. What I can tell you is that there is some unknown toxin in your blood. So far, you’re presenting the symptoms of a mild fever. But I have no idea _what_ to expect.”

“Guess you were right, Harry.” His gaze slides over the ensign once again, except when Harry turns to meet it, something electric and hot sparks within him. And just as suddenly at it arrives, it’s snuffed out again. Harry blinks, mirroring his own stricken expression back at him.

“- something tells me, given the seriousness of your reaction, that this ‘fever’ is the least of our problems,” the Doctor continues obliviously, dragging Tom’s attention away. “But of course, I won’t know until I have more information about what we’re dealing with. In the meantime, I’d like to keep you both in for observation.”

“Wait,” Tom swivels his head to look at him, and then immediately regrets it as his vision doubles. “Wait. Why the both of us?”

The Doctor regards him with another frown, as if to say, _well, isn’t it obvious._ “Because there’s evidence of the toxin in Mr. Kim’s bloodstream as well.”

Tom turns to look at him. Harry’s face is pinched with anxiety – but _there_ he sees it in his slouched posture, his drooping eyes. How had he missed that? 

The Doctor picks up the rest of his PADDs. “Since there’s nothing I can do for you at this moment, I’m returning to my office to conduct further research. I trust you won’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you need,” he pauses at the entrance to his office. “And do try to keep the noise down.”

Once the Doctor’s out of earshot, Tom sits up gingerly but properly. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “I didn’t think that stuff got on you.”

“I didn’t think it did either.” Harry pushes a hand through his hair and slumps back on the biobed. “But here we are,” he says. “I feel like I’ve been through ten rounds of bare-knuckle boxing with a Nasusicaan.”

Tom presses his lips together. He can’t seem to stop himself from stealing glances. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah well,” Harry is dismissive. “I’m just glad you’re alright. It was pretty scary for a second, there.”

“I hope it wasn’t _too_ dramatic.”

“Oh, sure it was,” Harry’s laugh is weak. “You were out cold for an hour, and then in and out of consciousness for the next two. The Captain came by to see you.”

“She did, huh?”

“Yeah – and rest assured everyone’s pulling crazy shifts to fix this for us.”

Tom sighs. “Well, I’m still waiting for you to say it.”

Harry turns to look at him now. “Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind. I just thought this was punishment enough.” His grin tugs on the corners of his mouth despite the exhaustion in his face, and something lurches, hot, in Tom’s stomach.

Too tired to understand it.

The grey fog of lethargy descends on him like a heavy veil. He shivers under his thin blanket. “This is no reflection on you, Harry, but I can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”

“Don’t let me keep you awake,” is the last thing Tom hears before he passes out again.

*

The hiss of the doors stirs Harry awake.

He’d slept fitfully. Too hot. Too clammy. Dreams that he couldn’t remember – images flashing just behind his eyes – he’d tossed and turned, burning up fever pitch hot, and sweat right through his uniform. He’s down to his boxers and undershirt now, already damp at his chest, his discomfort overriding his sense of propriety.

He regrets it the minute the Captain walks into sickbay, but she barely seems to notice. There’s a pinched look between her eyebrows that Harry’s come to recognise as concern. She whispers something, low and quiet and hurried to the Doctor who glances over at them with poorly disguised apprehension. When the door opens for the second time, and Tuvok enters hands tied solemnly behind his back, Harry glances over at Tom.

Tom raises an eyebrow back at him, but Harry’s stuck on the fact Tom too seems to have stripped down to his grey vest and distinctively non-standard issue black briefs. There’s sweat collecting at his collar, and when he shifts, it rides up slightly hinting at the skin beneath. He tries not to focus on his pale thighs, a stark contrast to the dark material of his all-too-tight underwear. Something - something Harry’s unable to make sense of - sitting low at the pit of Harry’s stomach, a different kind of heat altogether, stirs at the sight.

He barely has a moment to parse it because Tom’s speaking with an edge of irritation palpable in his voice. “What’s the verdict, Captain?”

For a moment she seems uncertain, as if she’s unsure whether the information is better coming from her or the Doctor, but then she presses ahead, professional as always. “Well, gentlemen, as you probably know, we made contact with the Ltari last night. Now, there wasn’t much information we could get from them, but we have reason to believe they know more than they’re letting on. What we do know is the planet the away team landed at yesterday is named by the Ltari,” she pauses, expression shifting into something inscrutable, “the ‘planet of the betrothed.’”

Harry stares at her. “The what?”

“This coupled with the specimen Tuvok brought back this morning leads us to suspect that this ‘planet of the betrothed’ is not a mere mistranslation of the universal translator, as we originally suspected, but rather a site often used for Ltari fertility rituals.”

“Wait,” Harry starts. “What does the flower have to do with this?”

“And what do those fertility rituals have to do with _us_?” says Tom, brushing damp hair out of his face.

“It’s simple really,” says the Doctor. “The plant itself is genetically modified beyond anything human culture has ever dealt it. I suspect the Ltari have been breeding – or rather, creating - this particular plant for very specific purposes. Nevertheless, we have knowledge of some of the compounds found within the pollen sac. In some humanoids, they can cause, what is considered in laymen’s terms, an increased libido.”

Harry digests this slowly, creeping horror beginning to descend at the implications. “So, what you’re saying is that the flower is some kind of aphrodisiac?”

“If you _must_ be so crude about it,” says the Doctor. “Though, in human culture, aphrodisiacs were often somewhat of a myth – chocolate, asparagus, pomegranate – no real scientific evidence behind it. I’m afraid this may be the real thing. Or maybe that’s a positive. I suppose it depends on your outlook.”

Harry can feel Tom's staring at him, but he averts his gaze. The tips of his ears are beginning to redden.

“I may regret asking this,” he says. “But, does that _mean_ for us?”

“Well,” the Doctor begins, evenly. “There are no records of this particular cluster of compounds being ingested by a _human_. We don’t know whether it’ll have much effect on your libido. Whether this fever is merely a side effect. Or, of course, there is a chance the Ltari have bred something specific into the plant that affects the pollen in a way we can’t understand yet.”

“So, really, you’re saying there’s no telling _what_ this’ll do to us,” says Tom.

“The chances are vanishingly small, but yes, I suppose the risk is there, in a manner of speaking. But such is the nature of handling things you don’t understand, _Mr. Paris_.”

Tuvok raises an eyebrow. “On that note, perhaps it would be beneficial, once you’re fit, to have another refresher course on Starfleet away-mission protocols.”

Tom frowns.

“Nevertheless,” The Doctor continues, picking up a hypospray. “While we search for answers, I’m prescribing you both acetaminophen and a bowl of Neelix’ chicken noodle soup, and then I’m happy to release you to your quarters with a cortical monitor. I recommend time off from activity duty in the meantime.”

The Doctor injects Harry with the hypospray, and the cloud of lethargy begins to dissipate. All that remains is the discomfort of his sweaty undershirt, and the acute embarrassment of having discussed his _sex drive_ with his captain, doctor, security officer and best friend.

His gaze lands back on Tom, still sat there so utterly exposed, and he clears his throat, tearing his eyes away. “You’re releasing us?”

“I see no reason not to. An increased libido never hurt anybody,” says the Doctor as he injects Tom. At their astonished faces, he quickly adds, “rest assured, I will be working tirelessly on an antidote, just in case.”

“In the meantime,” says the Captain. “We’re meeting a delegation of Ltari in seventeen hours. Gentlemen, we will get to the bottom of this.”

*

Shapes flashing through his mind. Hands and bodies and fingers. Writhing and sweating and groaning and pleasure sparking through each of his synapses, lighting them on fire. A hand gripping his hair, a mouth on his jaw. His back arching. He’s burning, burning, burning.

There’s somebody above him, someone familiar. Dark hair and quick, clever fingers. He’s speaking to him, telling him something –

“ _Jesus_ , Tom.” He groans as if it’s being punched out of him.

He recognises the voice. He opens his mouth to say as much but all that comes out is, “ _don’t stop_ ,” needy and rung out–

_\--_

Tom starts awake, panting and drenched in sweat.

The remnants of his dream ebb away as he catches his breath, but the pleasure from it, the arousal still burns just underneath his skin. He staggers out of his bed and to the bathroom, checking out his own reflection in the mirror. His cheeks are flushed red, hair an untidy mess – he can see that _lust_ so plainly, readily there on his face.

 _Who was that in his dream?_ The thought flits across his mind distantly as he replicates himself a glass of water, downs it in one, and then a coffee – bitter and strong – knowing instinctively that the prospect of more sleep is out of the airlock. 

“Computer, time?”

_“Oh five hundred, thirty-one hours.”_

“Damn.”

He’s on edge. Jittery. All that pent-up energy and no release. That heat burns at him, coils up his gut, slips down his spine. A sonic shower brings him no avail, nor does jerking off, or a brisk walk around deck six. He ends up back in his room, hands balled into tight fists as he tries, futilely, to think of something, anything else.

He begins to pace.

It’s like nothing he’s felt before. There is no respite, just a feeling of _need_ that intensifies slowly but surely. That need is specific, not a what but a who, a person and their solid warmth and their firm hands and their _mouth_ –

His gaze lands on the comm badge lying on his bedside table and he pauses mid-step. If this _is_ the pollen then maybe he’s not the only one struggling. He can’t talk to the Doc about this… _issue_ – the man has no frame of reference, no sense of empathy, he can’t know what it feels to be driven slowly insane by sexual frustration. 

But maybe Harry’s going through it too - maybe he knows what to do.

At the thought, something sparks sharp in his mind, like a thumb on a spark wheel. It ignites, a haze of blue heat. _Harry._ The need rises up him like a wave, threatening to drag him under. _Harry._ His fingers hover over his comm, everything inside him willing to him to make the contact, to hear his voice, deep and slightly hoarse as it always is first thing in the morning. Will he be annoyed at being woken up so early in the morning? Tom can almost hear the irritation, tempered with something like fondness. Or maybe he’ll be happy to hear his voice? Is he sat in his room too, thinking about Tom – just as hot and desperate as he is?

He grips himself through his underwear almost unconsciously, groaning at the embers of pleasure that shudder through him –

Then reality hits him like a bucket of cold water.

God – what’s happening to him?

\--

He’s still thinking about it four hours later, when he’s summoned to the conference room. The Captain is already waiting for him, along with the Ltari ambassador - Keevan. Her big eyes are set wide on her face, round and black, and there are intricate patterns etched into her skin, not that dissimilar to Trill spots.

She stands to greet him, towering over him reedy and tall. “It is good to meet you, Mr. Paris.”

“Likewise,” he says, acutely aware of his clammy hands.

Then the door hisses open and in walks Harry, shoulders set, expression cool neutral. Tom feels him before he sees him- feels the pull dragging from deep inside himself. It takes considerable effort to keep himself from staring so openly, but even with the most will in the galaxy, he can’t stop himself from glancing over. Harry, however, resolutely avoids his gaze as he takes Keevan’s hand and sets himself down in his own seat two spaces away from Tom’s.

Tom is barely listening to the conversation. He’s dully aware of the Captain, pushing through fifteen minutes of standard Federation diplomacy with as much poise and tact as she can maintain while practically pleading the Ltari to give them anything, " _more information_ , _more of an understanding about how I can practically help my two officers.. Our Doctor is making headway, but you see, he can only do so much with half of the facts -"_

It effectively fizzles out to background noise, lost beneath that tidal wave that’s rising higher and higher. Tom’s eyes linger on Harry’s profile, taking in the sweep of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the curtain of hair, neatly pulled back – no effort spared to appear in control, just as pinpoint perfect as he always looks. But Tom can tell by the incessant tapping of his fingers against his leg, the sweat at the nape of his neck, that he’s struggling with it just as much as Tom is.

Part of him wants to say screw it all. Screw the implications, the consequences – he wants to grab him by the hand, clear the room – and what? He shifts in his chair uncomfortably, heat rising within him. What would it actually _be_ like with Harry? Sure, he’s green, but not nearly as green as people think. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking to suspect an air of dominance about him, but in his experience, he’d found it was always the unsuspecting ones. God, imagine that - pushed down beneath his weight, Harry’s eyes, dark and serious, mouth falling open as he slides –

It’s the pollen, it _has_ to be the pollen, because he’s distantly aware that he should feel _some_ sense of shame at the very least, but those protestations feel increasingly empty, performative before the unapologetic thoughts that flood through him, an onslaught. He’s getting reckless with it, his usual filter worn paper thin. He cheeks redden as he lowers himself further in his seat, gaze fixed resolutely on the table.

He tries to focus on the conversation.

“If you could just give us _some_ idea -”

“You are not understanding,” exasperation bursts out of the Ambassador, black eyes widening impossibly. “Nothing can be done. It is not our way to even _discuss_ these things.”

“I understand, and we will use the utmost discretion, Ambassador, but if we can’t understand the basics, how can our Doctor-”

“Doctors– they are _nothing._ ” She turns her attention on them both, gesturing between them. “They must resolve the _m’k’bah_ themselves. Nothing can interfere.”

“The m’k’bah?”

She looks impatient. “The _m’k’bah_. The bond.”

Harry turns to look at him for the first time in forty-five minutes, and it hits him like a phaser in the chest.

And Tom thinks - _oh shit._

“You’re saying they’ve been…bonded?” Janeway is disbelieving, staring now between him and Harry. She turns back to Keevan. “For how long? In what way?”

“Surely, Captain Janeway, you are able to see for your own eyes,” says Keevan, plainly. “It takes as long as it takes, but they know what must be done.”

*

“Harry, Harry wait up.”

He can hear Tom’s heavy footsteps behind him, practically jogging to keep up. Harry doesn’t slow, willing himself to get to the turbolift first.

Their ensuing trip to sickbay had proved to be nothing but a waste of time. The Doctor hadn’t known what to make of the new information, because of course he hadn’t – what _was_ there to understand? Only cryptic clues to a ‘bond’ too vague to give them any concrete solutions.

It still manages to fill him with a fresh wave of anxiety, anyway.

Not to mention the embarrassment of it all. Of course, the captain had tried to be diplomatic about it, using euphemisms like ‘their situation’ and ‘this ritual’ but there was no getting away from what she meant – what this meant. All the while, he could practically feel Tom’s eyes on him, heavy and charged. His own gaze had stuck resolutely to the ground, blushing all the way up to his hairline.

It doesn’t help that Tom seems utterly determined to confront him about this. What he needs is to put as much space between them as possible, take the time to really think about this, about what it means, about the _implications._ But Tom’s presence clouds his thoughts, muddies his rationale, and instead he's thinking about the crooked smile Tom wears, or the soft muscle beneath his undershirt, or how he would look flushed out and writhing under him -

_Fuck._

As he steps into the turbolift, a hand jams the door before it closes and Tom’s face comes into view.

“Can we just talk for a minute?”

“Deck six. What is there to talk about?”

“Halt turbolift.” The turbolift comes to a stop and Tom rounds on him, arms crossed over his chest. “Are you mad at me or something?”

Harry shakes his head, no, but keeps his eyes fixed on the doors. His nerves are bundled tight inside him, a rat’s nest of wires, jumbled and overlapping. He can feel Tom’s presence like heat, like sunlight, direct and offending and overpowering – too difficult to ignore, too difficult to resist.

“Then what?” Tom bites out. “Because I’ve been trying to talk with you about this all day, and I feel like I’m being stonewalled here.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Tom snorts. “Oh, sure there isn’t. Just the fact that we’re both been driven insane by this – and I know,” he tries to catch Harry’s eyes. “- I know it’s not just me.”

Harry’s hands ball into fists at his sides.

“- And now, we’ve been told there’s this – this bond between us, and you’re saying there’s _nothing_ you want to discuss?”

“That’s right.”

“Why are you being so _obstinate_ about this?”

“Because, it’s a _nightmare_ , Tom,” it bursts out of him. This time he does turn to meet that bright blue gaze, clear and searching. It hits him solidly in the gut, almost winding him. “You – this - ”

Tom moves to touch his shoulder, it’s meant to be gentle, empathetic gesture, but Harry feels that contact like an electric shock that charges him all the way down to his feet.

“I can’t do this,” he turns, running his hand down his face. “I can’t do this. Being around you, looking at you. It’s too much. I’m going out of my mind, here.”

Tom takes a step. His pupils are blown wide, engulfing crystal blue in darkness. “It’s the same for me too. All day long, I’ve just wanted - ”

“- we _can’t_ , Tom,” he cuts in, almost pleading with him. “We can’t. God, do you know what that would mean?”

“Sure, I do,” Tom’s voice drops low, the tone rumbles through Harry’s entire body. “But let’s be honest about this, Harry – I still _want_ to. And I think you do too.”

“I,” Harry swallows, gaze tracking the way Tom’s tongue drags across his bottom lip. “I shouldn’t.”

Tom’s gaze is heavy on him, pinning him in place. He looks punch-drunk, a heady kind of lust that draws his eyelids low. “But _do you_?”

Harry considers lying, but knows, instinctively that he can’t - his expression, his body language, his gaze, all too easy to read. 

“Yes.” 

The tension between them thins out, tenses, balancing on a pinpoint, and for a moment, Harry’s sure they’re going to succumb to it. Tom’s crowding his space, chest rising and falling, eyes dark. It would be easy, it’d be so _easy -_

He steps out of Tom’s space.

He steps out of Tom’s space and it takes everything he has within him.

He draws a shaky breath, bracing himself against the turbolift walls, and it feels like defying the forces of nature. Yet he pulls on his composure like a suit of armour, voice still wavering when he gives the command, “resume turbolift.”

Tom pushes a hand through his own hair, jaw hardening, struggling. “What do we do then?” he asks after a moment.

Harry glances over, eyes sliding over Tom’s profile, lean and tall and so beautiful. He watches the sweat drip down from the nape of Tom’s neck, dipping into his collar bone. He wants to chase it with this tongue -

He forces himself to tear his eyes away, staring once again at the doors. “I don’t know.”

\--

He strips the moment he enters the room, throwing his stifling uniform across the furniture as he beelines to the bathroom to wash his face. The cold water is welcoming, fresh, cools the heat on his cheeks and forehead, but does nothing to sate the heat inside of him, his racing pulse. He catches his own expression in the mirror as he dries his face, takes in that high flush, the wild look in his eyes and thinks _you’re losing it, Harry._

A distraction. He needs a distraction.

He ends up replicating himself a beer and as much food as his rations allow for. Not that he’s particularly hungry. His appetite, along with his sleeping pattern had both been shunted out the airlock these past few nights. But he forces the burger and fries nonetheless, putting the rest of it back into the replicator, before grabbing a quick shower (the regular, none -pleasure seeking kind – figures that indulging would do nothing but magnify the problem -though that proves to be a trial in and of itself) and settles into bed.

The frustration is unrelenting. He wants like he’s never wanted before – _needs_ Tom, needs to be near him. Still he tries - he tosses and turns for a good two hours, ignoring the burning ache between his legs, struggling for sleep. But sleep brings no reprieve. His dreams, just like his thoughts, are vividly filthy. Sex and sweat and faceless bodies and that constant arousal, honey-slow and sickly sweet that drips through him, an ache that has him grinding into his mattress for relief that never comes, _never-ending -_

And at twenty-one hundred hours he wakes up, hard, drenched in sweat and shaking with need.

His fingers find his comm-badge.

“ _Paris here_ ,” comes the response, seconds later. There’s a breathiness to Tom's voice that sends a lurch cascading through him. God, he’s so turned on, he might die.

“I just wanted to check in with you,” Harry says – not a complete lie. And then adds. “I can call back later if you’re – uh – preoccupied.”

A snort. “ _Relax, Harry. There’s nobody here but me_.” Oh. _Oh_ , but now Harry’s picturing it- Tom laid out on his mattress, stroking himself slowly, steadily, working himself into a frenzy.

He almost curses.

Tom continues. _“Though I was under the impression you wanted nothing to do with me, right now.”_

“I didn’t mean it like that, earlier,” Harry grits out. “I just meant - ”

“ _It's okay, I get it_.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Harry bites his lip. “I wish you were here.”

There’s another long pause, and when Tom speaks again, his voice is rough. _“Remind me why we’re doing this whole ‘abstinence’ thing again?”_

“Because,” Harry struggles. His grip on his self-control is shattering by the second. “It’s – say we do – _that_ – say we get rid of the pollen or whatever, what happens when we’re back to our old selves? How do we look at each other in the eye again?”

 _“I don’t know,”_ Tom admits. _“Honestly, I don’t know if I can be totally rational about this, Harry -”_ a half-broken moan, barely concealed. Fuck. “ _I- I wasn’t kidding before._ ”

“I feel the same way,” says Harry. His hand drifts higher, cupping himself through his boxers. His fingers drag idly along the length of his dick. It feels _so_ good, letting himself indulge, even if it is ever so slightly.

 _“You know I dreamt about you,”_ says Tom. _“I think it was you.”_

“Yeah?” Harry’s voice comes out far breathier than he means it to. “What kind of dream?”

_“I’m not sure that telling you would be conducive to this whole ‘not fucking’ thing.”_

“Tom,” Harry swallows, gripping himself properly. “You’re making this difficult.”

 _“I’m sorry, do you think this is_ easy _for me?”_ comes the reply. _“If you want to keep this platonic then I respect that, and we will. But I can’t pretend I don’t want it - that if you said the word, I wouldn’t be round your quarters and on my knees in a heartbeat.”_

“Jesus,” says Harry, weakly. “You can’t _talk_ like that.”

 _“It’s the honest truth,”_ Tom drawls. _“Anything you wanted, Harry. You know that, right?”_ Another pause. Harry imagines him, sweaty and glassy-eyed, completely overcome. “ _Could see it on your face, earlier, in the turbolift. Bet it was killing you, wasn’t it? Or no – earlier, the conference room. You could’ve pushed me down on the table – fucked me then and there. I would’ve let you, Harry -”_

Harry bites down on his lip hard enough to taste copper.

 _“I mean it. Anytime you wanted,”_ a shallow breath. “ _The offer still stands.”_

The fever inside of him rages, skin prickling hot, his mind screaming _Tom, Tom, Tom._

Screw it – he thinks.

_*_

Harry’s stood in his doorway, half-bathed in light. He’s wearing a dark robe draped over shorts and his undershirt, clearly so far beyond gone that his modesty barely factors. His eyes are impossibly dark, jaw set, unsmiling.

And Tom knows he’s in for it.

Harry steps past the threshold, waits for the doors the close and then pushes him against the wall. He kisses harsh and deep and dirty, teeth biting his bottom lip. He kisses singularly, spectacularly, as if it’s his one and only goal, his mission. Tom feels it in waves, the intensity of it – he’s vaguely vindicated, but barely has a moment to register it, washed up in sensation, in heat and pressure and Harry’s chest against his, Harry’s fingers on his jaw. Tom fists the robe, pressing him closer, relishing it. _Yes, yes, yes,_ it’s what he wanted – what he _needed._

Harry breaks for air first, trailing biting kisses across his jaw, down his neck, his collar bone and Tom can’t help but groan, tips his head back, softly hitting the wall. His breath comes harsh and ragged, swept away by the pleasure that twinges through him, every molecule in his being _revelling,_ anticipating relief, sweet and filthy relief. He twists the robe in his hands, clutching for purchase when Harry brushes his dick through his underwear.

“Damn,” says Tom, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Breathes in the scent of him. Fingers in Harry’s hair. “I knew it. Knew you’d be like this.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s reply is caught against Tom’s jaw, mouthing at his skin, at his rough five o’clock shadow, as he works to throw off his own robe. His hands shuck up Tom’s undershirt, touching bare skin, and it sets Tom on _fire._

Tom needs to be out of his clothes. Needs to be naked _now_. He sheds his shirt and pants, watching Harry watch him, watches the way Harry licks his lips, the way Harry’s cheeks redden. Knowing how much he’s wanted, knowing the gutter thoughts racing through Harry’s mind has him _this_ close to losing his mind. He drops to his knees. Presses his face into the crease of Harry’s hips, desperate, and hot, mouths his lower stomach, his inner thigh, listening to the way Harry’s breath hitches in anticipation. His grin is dark as he pushes the underwear down Harry’s thighs.

Harry’s hips buck up of their own accord. “Oh, God."

The sound he makes when Tom puts his mouth on him is one he’ll always remember - something like a shout, or a groan, or some wicked combination of the two. It’s so hot, he’s about to burn up, shivering, shuddering, so turned on he can barely see straight. Harry’s fingers find Tom’s hair, clutching at him as Tom hollows his cheeks, responding to the movement of Harry’s hips, the rhythm he sets.

“Tom,” Harry’s breath comes out as an extended groan.

Tom’s dick aches spurred on by the pleasure-pain of Harry’s fist in his hair, the fever ravaging through him. Using one hand to grasp Harry’s thigh, he reaches down to jerk himself off, groaning.

“Yeah – yeah, so good,” Harry’s too far gone to be considerate, his hips buck an incessant rhythm that has Tom drooling around him. If anything, it turns him on more – knowing that he’s doing that to Harry, driving him into that state. Tom’s senses are in overload, close already, so damned close – and this, the taste, the feeling of Harry above him has him teetering on the edge.

But then Harry’s moving off, gasping for breath. His cheeks are flushed red, hair an untidy mess. He extends a hand toward Tom, pulling him to his feet, presses his fingers against Tom’s lips, swollen red and shiny with spit.

Tom watches him with hooded eyes. “I need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah,” Harry’s saying. “God - yes.” And pushes Tom backwards, pushing him down onto the bed. He brackets Tom’s body with his own, breath ragged as he kisses him again, stroking Tom’s dick in a loose fist. “Do you have stuff?”

“Top drawer,” Tom pants. Harry moves off him for little more than a couple of seconds, pulling out the tube of lube. He coats his fingers in it and spreads Tom’s legs out beneath him as he presses in, slow at first, and then more insistent. Tom should be embarrassed by how desperate he is for this, how quickly Harry’s broken him, reduced him to writhing mess of _need_ and _want,_ how shameless he is for it, but he’s past caring, turned into a hedonist, a needy thing, keening at the feeling of Harry’s finger – _fingers_ , a second one added – knuckle deep and stretching him out.

His own fingers scrabble at the bedding as Harry finds his prostate, pushing up against it, merciless. A third finger. Fuck. Tom is shaking below him, eyes sliding closed, biting his pillow to supress his moans – but when Harry leans down to swallow his dick -- Tom _shatters._

“I need it, fuck I need it – need you,” he’s almost hysterical, so far gone, he doesn’t even know what’s he’s saying, “Come on, Harry, you’ve gotta – “

Harry slides his mouth off him, lips wet. “Yeah, you want it?”

“Jesus, Harry, don’t make me beg.”

“As much as I’d love to see that,” Harry slicks his dick up, lining himself up against Tom. Hooks Tom’s leg over his shoulder as he nudges forward, teasing him. “Maybe we should save it for another time.”

And then he’s pressing in. Slow. Steady. Harry’s fingers pressing into the divot of Tom’s hips, grounding him in place as he bottoms out.

“Okay?” he pants against Tom’s oustretched leg.

Tom’s watching him with barely lucid eyes. “I’m not gonna break, Harry. Come on, fuck me.”

He does. A rhythm that starts slow – and Tom think he must have the self-control of a saint – that builds and builds, and Tom whines and cajoles and begs him to go _faster, you gotta go faster, Harry, sweetheart, I’m not porcelain_ until his Harry’s hips slam into him, hard and deep.

“Good?” Harry asks him, shifts his angle, pressing forward to go impossibly _deeper._ Tom’s eyes roll all the way back, biting his lip to stifle his shout – it’s good, it’s so _fucking_ good, he can’t form words. Tom’s nerve endings are singing, electricity crackling through his body, running down his spine.

Beside him, Harry’s leaning forward to murmur sentences half-broken and filthy -

“You like that?“ his voice is low and urgent. “Maybe, next time, I’ll make you scream.”

“ _Harry_.” Tom’s mind races, overwhelmed, oversensitive, hurtling towards his orgasm. Harry has him panting, sweating, fireworks exploding behind his eyes with every snap of his hips. His own dick presses hard against his stomach, thick and leaking wet and Harry swipes his thumb through the wetness there, jerks him off firm and hasty.

“I’m gonna –“ Tom starts, hips bucking up. “Oh God. Harry.”

Harry’s rhythm begins to falter, a telltale sign he’s not far off. “Yeah, do it for me, let me see you.”

His wrist twists just like _so_ , dick brushing up against him _just there, just like that, oh God, just like that –_ and he’s coming hard and fast; his shout muffled by Harry’s hand. Below him, he’s distinctly aware of Harry pounding in _once, twice, three more times_ and he’s pressing in deep and groaning into Tom’s shoulder.

They fill up the room with their breathing, loud and raspy. Harry pulls out and flops on his back next to Tom.

But something’s wrong. The fever is still there, quietened from its loud roar, but still there.

Beside him, Harry’s frowning. “I think we may be in for a long night.”

\--

He’s not sure how many times it happens, lost count somewhere over the course of night. Images, memories flash behind his eyes, of sweaty skin, and drawn out whines, and bitten-red lips – one, extended arc of pleasure that seemed to move over him like a wave. But he stirs awake now, disoriented and sweaty, his bedsheets half strewn across his body.

He notices, immediately, the empty spot beside him. The bedsheets have been carefully turned down at the corner. Harry’s belongings, including his robe that had previously laid crumpled by the door, vanished.

He knows straight away what it means.

And his heart sinks all the way down to the ground.

\--

Tom’s sitting at the table at the far end of the mess hall, hands curled around his cup of leola root substitute coffee – wishing for something far stronger - when he becomes aware of a shadow looming tall over him.

He starts and almost upends the whole thing on himself.

“Sorry to disturb you,” the Ltari - Keevan looks apologetic. “Mr…. Paris, is it?”

He forces a smile. Honestly, he doesn’t feel much like company - wants to sit here unnoticed with nothing but the stars and his thoughts, but of course, with Starfleet – with Voyager –diplomacy comes first. Instead he puts on his tried and tested _I’m-a-well-respected-and-professional-officer_ veneer and motions to the empty seat across from him.

Keevan nods appreciatively, taking her place. Her big eyes round on him, and a smile tugs at her mouth. “You look well rested,” she says. “I trust that the _m’k’bah_ has been resolved?”

Tom raises his eyebrows. _Straight to the point, then._

“Of course, I understand it is a delicate matter,” she frowns at herself. “It has been centuries since an off-worlder underwent the ritual. Forgive me, I am… curious.”

“Yes,” Tom’s aware that the tips of his ears are starting to go pink. “We, uh, resolved it.”

“Yet you appear unhappy. The experience did not satisfy you?”

“Oh, it satisfied me, alright,” Tom can’t help but chuckle as he shifts his gaze back to the inky-black sky. “Satisfied my curiosity too, about a lot of things. I just,” he pauses. “I’m not sure it was worth it.”

Her thin eyebrows knit together, confused. “It is clear the Terran culture continues to elude me,” she says, not unkindly. “That one can share an experience as transformative as the Eve of Passion with a Beloved and it produce such a lacklustre response -”

“Beloved?” Tom looks across at her.

She stares back. “Your _mate_.”

“He’s not my mate,” his reply is bitter. “Hell, I’m not sure I’m even able to call him a friend anymore.” 

“He was not your mate?” Keevan frowns again. “You, together, did not seek out the _‘byaan_ \- the sacred flower?”

"I thought they told you." Tom shakes his head. “The whole thing was an accident. Harry just happened to be with me at the time.”

“Accidental?” Keevan echoes. The jewellery adorned on her hands and fingers jingle together as she gestures, “I’m afraid that cannot be so. The _‘byaan_ is not a thing of whimsy _._ It does not create, nor does it displace – it simply magnifies the existing.”

Tom stares at her. “What?”

“Our species has been modifying the _‘byaan_ , perfecting the _m’k’bah_ for centuries. There is no such _thing_ as a mistake,” she says. “The very notion that one is able to share an Eve of Passion with a perfect stranger, an acquaintance, even a _friend.._.you must think us savages.”

“Wait,” he says, weakly. “Wait. Couldn’t it just be that our physiology reacted differently to yours – to what you were expecting?”

Her laugh tinkles like music. “I think not. Please do not take this as an insult, Mr. Paris, but Federation science is rather… _rudimentary_ by our standards. True, I could explain the process of modification, but I am afraid it is quite complex.”

His heart slams into his chest.

“I believe I understand,” she continues, thoughtful. “When your people first made contact with us, we assumed the dilemma was simply that the _m’k’bah_ was an inconvenience, a hindrance to the efficiency of your ship, your crew. A misunderstanding, I see now.”

He looks up at her again. “So, what you’re saying is…?”

“Whether you are cognizant of the fact or not, he is a Beloved one.”

*

The Doctor had discharged Harry earlier that morning; reluctantly, albeit - Harry’d turned down his suggestion for another day’s rest and recuperation, “given the ordeal you’ve just been through, Mr. Kim.” What he needed was to throw himself into work. Tinkering with the phase compensators keeps his hands busy, keeps his mind busy. And a busy mind doesn’t have time to _overthink,_ as his mom used to say.

Except it’s not working, because as hard as he tries, he can’t stop his thoughts from wandering back to Tom. It’s not so much about what they’d done – Harry had, eventually, made his peace with the logic of it, figured that _that_ was the only way to get the pollen out of their systems. No - what had really unsettled him was the _tenderness_ that followed. When the night had worn on, and the sex had become less frantic, and more languid. When Harry had glanced down and met Tom’s eyes – so open and blue and vulnerable – and his heart had _ached._ It was too much. Too close to something more than the mechanics of sex and the satisfaction of release - something that couldn’t just be dismissed by the effects of some potent aphrodisiac –

And as he’d laid there in the early hours of the morning, ostensibly sleeping off one of their many rounds, the realisation of it all had hit him square in his chest, knocked him flat on his ass. Harry knows he’s good at many things – but dealing with _this_ emotional quagmire isn’t one of them.

So, he can’t.

So, he doesn’t.

Instead he ties it up in a neat little box in his head, marked ‘to deal with later’, and dives wholeheartedly into work. Pulls a double shift on the bridge, and extra hours down in engineering helping to conduct maintenance on the EPS grid. Sure – he’s not totally present, sure he finds his thoughts straying back, but he puts in a good effort and by seventeen-hundred hours, he’s almost proud of himself.

That is, until he rounds the corner on his way to his quarters, and sees Tom parked outside of his door, uniformed and as polished as ever.

And his heart seizes right up.

He forces himself to walk. “Hey.”

Tom looks up, pulls himself to his feet. He’s uneasy – Harry can see it in his eyes, in his stance, in his fidgeting fingers. “Hey. Can we talk?”

“Sure,” Harry swallows. The doors open, and Tom trails in behind him. Harry places the stack of PADDs on his coffee table, and replicates himself a glass of water – stalling, maybe. But he doesn’t know how to approach this, feels like he’s bobbing in the open ocean, so far out of his depth he’s struggling to tread water.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” he asks, eventually.

Tom looks up from the spot he’s studying on the carpet, takes in a hesitant breath. “Us,” he says. “This. Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now. And I know, it’d be easier for you if we just pretended it didn’t happen.”

“Yeah,” Harry admits, crossing his arms across his chest. “It probably would.”

“But see the thing is,” Tom licks his lips. “The thing is, I spoke to the Ltari today, and she said something I can’t get out of my head.”

Harry frowns. “What?”

“It might sound kind of crazy,” Tom starts. “But she said that _that_ – the bond – could’ve only happened if there was something already… _there_ between us. For both of us.” He folds his arms. “At first, I _did_ think it was crazy. I thought that maybe she got it wrong somehow. But the more I thought about it, the more…”

Tom looks up at him now, levels his blue gaze right at him. “The more I figured she was right. And I don’t know _when_ , exactly - I couldn't pinpoint it. But when I think back to it, when we were right in the middle of the whole… pollen ordeal, I wasn’t offput by the thought of me and you - it didn’t even feel strange to me. I was just worried about what it would _do_ to us - to our friendship.”

Harry’s deafened by the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. “What are you saying?”

Tom stands, takes a couple of steps towards him. “I think you know what I’m saying.”

“It sounds,” says Harry, weakly. He clears his throat. “It sounds like you’re saying that you have…feelings for me.”

Tom’s breath comes out as a chuckle, mirthless, uneasy. “You know, I woke up this morning, alone, and I kept waiting for the fog to clear – for the moment I was able to think about you without it aching,” another couple of steps, closing the gap between them. “But it never went away. I guess because that pollen never created that in the first place.”

Harry watches him, carefully – watches those blue eyes, filled with something like hope and fear. The sincerity laid so plainly on his face.

“So at least for me,” Tom continues, voice dropping to a murmur. His fingers ghost Harry’s jawline – and for a moment, Harry leans into it. “From my end of things, she was absolutely right.”

Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He feels a familiar flicker of heat light up inside him, nowhere near as loud as before, but there.

“Tell me if I’m out of line, here, Har.”

“You’re not,” says Harry, hoarse.

He sees the relief flood through him, a half smile pulls at his mouth. “No?”

“No,” Harry admits. “God, Tom – I couldn’t even begin to tell you -” He cuts himself off and Tom’s eyes drop to the floor, trying to hide his smile.

“Well, I guess the question is, what do we do about it?”

“About us?”

Tom leans into his space, presses his lips against Harry's jaw, against his neck, feather-light and chaste. Still, Harry has to grip hold of the wall to steady himself. “I suppose we could go back to ignoring it and wait for it to boil over again in some spectacular display of sexual tension?”

Harry huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know, I think that sounds like kind of a waste.”

Tom pulls back, regards him a raised eyebrow, suggestive. “A waste of what, ensign? Surely you’re not intimating -”

Harry leans forward and kisses him. His fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Tom’s neck and his tongue swipes his bottom lip, drawing out his sigh. And sure, they’re no longer under the heady effects of the pollen, but Harry still feels as if he’s soaring.

“This is a really dumb idea,” he says, once they pull apart. “You do know that, right? Just a really, really stupid idea.”

“Well that figures,” Tom grins, and it crinkles his eyes. “But we can figure it out as we go, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry grins. “Screw it.”


End file.
